The Inn sat in a prime position on the banks of the Mossul, but that by no means made it a reputable establishment.

  The river flowed in from the south, and split into the A’at and Ahbek beneath the temple-pyramid. This inn lay on the eastern bank, inside the oddly named Sword district; for few swords would be bought and sold here. It was the most populous of the city's three districts and, by Nerkai’s standards, the poorest district of the city; however, to the rest of the Kailai it was downright opulent. Those who lived within the walls had comfortable homes, numerous amenities, shops and a solid standard of living that elsewhere the lower castes were not afforded. All of this was afforded to them by the sheer quantity of wealth flowing through the city and the generosity of the priesthood. Its landscape was a winding mesh of small streets, back alleys and tiny marketplaces.

  Its name was The Weeping Crocodile, and in spite of its opulent outward appearance, it was not some high-class guest house frequented by merchants and nobles, but an infamous den of mercenaries and thieves as old as the city itself. Although only the wealthiest of such scoundrels could afford to be among its patrons.

  Syla was sequestered in one of the many private booths clustered on the very edge of the establishment. The air was filled with the stench of alcohol and boastful shouts, drowning out the constant murmur of conversation that enveloped the well-lit room.

  The Sand-Spears, Shadrak’s monster-hunting mercenary company, Syla mused as she stared at a group that had entered shortly after her. Their shouting and cheering were by far the loudest.

  She had been watching them from a distance since they arrived, noting the small curiosities and trinkets adorning the group in an attempt to identify them. Her suspicions were confirmed by the sudden appearance of the uniquely weathered aquamarine scales that could only belong to Misa, Shadrak’s right hand woman, as she shunted forward to demand another round with a rough gesture. Syla continued to stare, pretending not to notice the garishly dressed man approaching her table, and nursing her own small mug of ale until he lowered himself into a seat opposite her.

  He was dressed as a troubadour, though he stood out like a peacock. His tri-colour outfit of blue, purple and green looked all the more obnoxious when compared to his dull, brown scales. His caste marks were utterly invisible, as his entire body was the perfect shade of peasant brown to disguise them, and his eyes were unremarkable dirt orbs.

  He put on the airs of a wealthy and educated man, but if his appearance did not, the involuntary inflections and accent to his voice revealed his mundane origins. “Evenin’ ma’am.” He grinned.

  “Good evening.” She paused, sighed, and finally looked at the man. “Does the sun shine on golden coin?”

  “Only when the sky is blue,” he replied, still grinning from ear to ear.

  “Your code phrases are abysmal.” She growled, leaning forward and putting her arms on the table. “Do you have what I asked for?”

  He shrugged. “Not my forte boss. But yeah, got what I could find, not that there’s much of it.”

  Syla raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Having trouble?” she mocked.

  “What me, trouble? Nah, these guys are just cleaner than a church flute,” the man replied

  “You also need to work on your metaphors.” Syla sighed.

  “You pay me for results, not metaphors.” He chuckled, his amusement bringing life to his otherwise dull appearance.

  “Then you should change your cover, ‘poet’.”

  “Not a chance. Turns out pickpocket’s fingers are good on the lute,” he declared with smug certainty.

  Syla rolled her eyes. “You are trying my patience, Tika. Spit it out, for I am not blessed with time. Continue to annoy me, and you won’t be either.”

  Tika’s playful arrogance crumbled in an instant. “O’ course, ma’am, of course…” he mumbled, his noble airs vanished as well. He licked his lips and took a quick breath. “They’re the exact kinda guys you tell us to avoid, both of ‘em. Straight as an arrow honourable type, not a bad word out there against ‘em bar the obvious House tripe,” he muttered.

  “Part and parcel of the high nobility. Continue.”

  Tika nodded profusely, like some kind of moronic desk ornament. “‘xactly ma’am, ‘xactly. There’s an important connection between the two of ‘em though, got a lot of history.” He looked around quickly, as though someone was listening to this specific conversation out of all the myriad conspiratorial groups scattered throughout the room.

  Syla stared at him impassively, motioning for him to continue.

  Tika finally seemed to calm down, stopping his constant fidgeting and bringing his hands together on the table. “Okay, so, these guys first met a few years back, tournaments and the like, lookin’ like big rivals. Then it all went weird two years ago.”

  “The Augon dunes.”

  Tika snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “Aye that. Complete mess. First time they met in battle. Ra’ven goes down, and your two guys have a scrap but walk away. Not really anyone that was in that one talks much about it to strangers, no matter how heavy the pouch. Safe to assume they got respect though.”

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  “That’s all you’ve got?” Syla growled, reaching one hand under the table. She had begun to regret going for an upstart cutpurse like Tika. He was the only one who promised results before the day was over, yet she could feel her coin being wasted.

  Tika nodded, avoiding her eyes. Syla sighed, throwing a jangling pouch in his direction. It slapped against his chest with a metallic thud before sliding down to his now open hands. “Get out of my sight.”

  Tika mumbled something under his breath, thanks, relief or an insult Syla did not know, nor did she care.

  The scoundrel rose quickly, letting his chair scrape loudly across the floor as a final act of childish defiance. He was clearly considering going straight to the bar, but he wisely thought better of it when he noted Syla’s hand still under the table, and made a swift exit.

  Syla drained her mug of ale in one swig and motioned for another to be brought over as she settled in. More research on the Augon dunes after all of this was over, otherwise she was going into this blind. Best to set her story while she waited.

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  ***

  When her guests arrived, she was singularly displeased.

  They barged in, wearing matching full armour, clanking with every step. The entire contents of the inn paused and turned to look at them where they stood in the doorway, brandishing oversized blades. The jovial atmosphere immediately gave way to a tense silence. The pair slowly rolled their gaze across the room as everyone stared back at them, hands moving stealthily to swords, clubs and axes.

  Syla scanned the room with a more critical eye, judging demeanours, positions and calculating escape routes if things turned bloody.

  Thankfully, they weren’t needed. The clattering excuses for bodyguards slumped themselves in a private booth, without uttering a word. Hopefully, they would just appear to be strange, out of city mercenaries, but there would be questions regardless.

  As the room returned to a tense approximation of normality, Syla found that Mavan had seated himself in a chair next to her without her even realising. How delightful, she thought, he just might do after all.

  Mavan was wrapped up in a long travelling cloak, draped over his battlefield chainmail that still bore the dirt of a long march. He looked thoroughly uncomfortable and more than a little out of place.

  They are prisoners here, I suppose. Syla thought, turning her gaze to the bodyguards hunched at the far table, and then back to Mavan. I shouldn’t expect them to have brought full wardrobes.

  Syla leant across the table, speaking in hushed tones. “Using the bodyguards as a distraction? Smart, if that was intentional.”

  Mavan shrugged, muttering just loud enough to hear. “I don’t like this place; it has a reputation even back in Amexal. I’d rather I wasn’t seen here.”

  “Come now, no need for such paranoia. It’s not as though someone watches and documents everyone who comes into this place. Nobody will know you’ve visited.” Syla covered her lie with a cheerful tone and friendly smile.

  “That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Mavan retorted sharply.

  Quick witted but defensive, Syla mused. Ezerkal had clearly raised his expectations too high. “Of course not,” she said, “but at least appear comfortable. Get yourself a drink, to start.”

  Mavan shrugged again, remaining hunched over the table. “I don’t even know what they have here.”

  Syla’s smile was genuine this time. “Whatever you desire.”

  “A good red from Veldun, that would be quite nice.”

  “Then I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Syla replied.

  Syla waved over the woman serving the tables and booths across the room. The waitress was tall and yellow-scaled with brown eyes and caste marks, dressed in simple but formal servant’s attire. She bowed as she reached the table. “What can I do for you?”

  “Red from the cellar. Tarset estate will do nicely. A Bottle for the gentleman. I will have my usual.”

  “Tarset? I can’t afford bottles of Tarset,” Mavan said, his eyes wide.

  “Madam Syla, will you be paying for the gentleman’s drinks this evening?” the waitress asked politely.

  Syla leaned back slowly, a serpentine grin spreading across her face as she replied, “Oh no…put it on Tika’s tab.”

  The drinks came quickly, but they spent the interval in silence. As they waited, two figures piqued her interest as they entered.

  One was a tall, muscular male with burgundy scales and a face like a mountain, complete with its own ridges, valleys and peaks. The other was large and powerfully built, but with the softer scales of a woman in shades of subdued, sandy yellow. Syla wasn’t quite sure what they attempted to portray, lumbering in rusted mail and battered breastplates as they were, but it seemed to work; despite both of their exposed red caste-marks. They split off to separate tables, placing themselves far enough apart not to seem suspicious, but close enough to see both one another and Syla.

  Syla grinned as she turned her attention back to Mavan. He was testing the wine; taking in its scent and having a small sip. He took a moment to savour it before swallowing.

  “This is…. excellent,” he muttered as he placed the glass down.

  “But that’s not what we’re here for,” Syla said.

  “Quite. I hear you have a dream you wish to share.”

  “A dream of unity, to be precise.”

  “I have been given the broad strokes of this picture from a mutual friend. I was hoping you might have some clarity, something more…factual.”

  Syla smiled. “The fact is that right now, nothing is set in stone,” she said, savouring Mavan’s confusion. “What we have is a dream, a goal, and resources.”

  “I was under the impression that resources were what you needed my kind for, turning this dream into reality,” Mavan said, confusion still etched on his face.

  “I am rather well-established. I have money, I have connections. In fact, I think you may need resources more than I.”

  He did not disagree or protest. Instead, his eyes fell to the table. He didn’t believe it, not yet. He saw her as an escape for his dying house, Syla could see it in his eyes.

  “Then what do you need from me? From nobles?”

  “I need men and women of principle. I need people who can aspire to a higher goal and are willing to take risks to achieve it. I need something greater than raw manpower and wealth,” Syla declared. She would make him believe.

  “Your current connections don’t fit the bill,” Mavan said, nodding as understanding dawned.

  “Exactly, I need people who share my dream. My current allies do not. Their dreams are far more…crude,” she said, though crude was too mild compared to the reality of what people like Tika aimed for. “They dream of overwhelming amounts of coin, lurid nights with exotic bedfellows and masterminding grand criminal schemes. But little else beyond that ever crosses their minds.” She licked her lips and straightened herself, hoping to make an impression on Mavan that would last. “My dream is far simpler, a single glorious thing that is so much further out of reach than any of that.”

  She leaned in close, putting on a conspiratorial air that she knew would draw someone like Mavan in.

  “Empire.”